


Half Moon

by undecimber



Series: Half Moon [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Domestic, Introspection, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will deals with his feelings I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undecimber/pseuds/undecimber
Summary: Post-fall cohabitation.





	1. Chapter 1

_“Take away the stone and the timber_  
_And a little piece of rope won't hold it together_  
_We're building a house of the future together”_  
_– Kate Bush, Love and Anger_

 

The house, when they arrived, was in stasis: white sheets covering the furniture, dust settled over everything. Hannibal pulled the sheets away, one by one, giving them a shrug. When they billowed up, they seemed to remain suspended in the air a prolonged moment before fluttering down to be folded into neat rectangles by his capable hands.

He began to dust. Sleeves rolled up and face set in concentration, he occupied himself with making the house presentable. Will watched from where he had slumped into an armchair, dimly aware that he ought to get up and assist, but Hannibal didn’t seem to expect it, so he didn’t.

In a while, Will rose to make a closer inspection of the house. It was a simple affair –rather small, but promising of comfort, when put to rights. Much too humble, considering Hannibal’s fine tastes.

A bedroom, where they had placed their bags at arrival, dark-walled and sparsely furnished. An adjacent bathroom in pale yellow tiles. A creaking staircase leading up to a derelict attic, a chair upturned, desolate, by the window. Will stepped across the floorboards and set the chair aright, before pulling up the window. The wooden frame showed some resistance, but was prised open with a faint screech, letting in a gust of cool air that set his hairs on end.

He leant his arms on the sill and looked out sweepingly, beyond the ring of ash trees that surrounded the house, their bare branches obscuring it from view like a filigree screen. The sun was beginning to dip in the purpling, cloudless sky; nothing broke the line of the horizon but scattered trees. He shut the window and went back down.

The rest of the rooms were these: a small study; a living room; a kitchen, checkerboard floored, an island at its center. There were three stools pushed underneath the island, two facing each other.

At the sight, Will felt a momentary pang. Something about the number three, which he associated with family, now reduced to two. The third presence an absence–hardly there at all. A wisp, an echo, an inscrutable reflection down a near-dry wishing well.

-

In the evening, Hannibal produced dinner out of the non-perishable food items stashed in the kitchen cupboards. They ate at the island, across from each other, the counter top snug enough their knees nearly brushed when they were seated.

Thus far they had naturally contended with subpar food: ready-made and instant meals that could be gotten off gas stations and such. Besides his poorly suppressed distaste, Hannibal had seemed near apologetic; as though allowing Will to ingest such junk were a point of personal failing. 

“It isn’t much," he said when he laid out the plates of pasta, chunky sauce made of canned vegetables.

“It’s alright,” Will reassured after a bite, “It’s good.”

Only a faint metallic tang soured the aftertaste, more offensive, doubtlessly, to Hannibal's developed palate. 

-

The bedroom had a single queen-sized bed. Neither remarked on it, through thick awareness of surreptitiously exchanged glances.

There were bed sheets in the cupboard, faintly musty, which Will assisted in fitting over the mattress. That done, he took a change of clothes from his bag, along with a toothbrush and a bar of soap.

In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth, then washed his face and his underarms. He realized there were no towels and used the discarded shirt to pat down his damp torso. As he put on his fresh t-shirt and shorts, he was conscious that he hadn’t wished to change in the room, in Hannibal’s presence. Obviously that was foolish. The two of them had been in close proximity for weeks now. They had seen each other in various levels of undress, tending to each other's wounds. This sudden burst of  _coyness_  was uncalled for.

Except, the previous lack of privacy was borne of necessity, which was different now. The house altered things, somehow; came with its own host of implications. Came with a single bed that they would share –everything that that entailed left unsaid.

Above him, a blinking light bulb illuminated the bathroom. It cast his reflection, from beneath a layer of grime, in flickering shadow. The high planes of his face glowed white, trailing water droplets. Conspicuous on his right cheek, his most recent scar drew his eye.

Though Will did not look at it often, he always felt the reflexive urge to trace it, which he now resisted.

Initially the wound had hurt terribly enough, he was completely convinced of its jagged hideousness. A brand of shame marring his face forever; some entirely hackneyed notion of the ugliness within him finally expressed without. But Hannibal had done a good job of stitching it neatly. When it began to heal, he made Will apply cream to it to minimize the scarring. 

It was a pale pink line of slightly raised skin, slightly crooked. No worse than other scars he'd previously weathered.

Re-entering the bedroom, he caught a glimpse of Hannibal’s naked back as Hannibal slipped his pajama top on. Will cut his eyes and took the left side of the bed mechanically, lying down, pulling the cover over him. In half a minute, Hannibal was done buttoning his pajamas and went into the bathroom too. When he emerged out of it, he switched the lamp off. He came to bed; his weight dipped the mattress. Warmth emanated from him. 

“Good night, Will," he said.   
“Good night.”

A measured distance separated their bodies. Will rolled towards the window so he faced away from Hannibal.

It was very dark outside, a moonless night. Silent too. The house was remote, the nearest town a forty minute drive. Now and then he caught the sound of the wind stirring the surrounding trees, the motion of leafless branches, a quiet whispering. Perhaps an hour passed before he got any sleep.

-

Further cleaning was necessitated the following day, commenced after breakfast; this time, Will made himself useful. Hannibal, who was still recovering from his gunshot wound, was unable to overtax his abdomen. Will took on the tasks he could not manage. He scrubbed the yellow-tiled bathroom and the bathtub in it. He cleaned the sooty fireplace while Hannibal wiped counter tops, polished windows, aired the rooms.

By mid-morning, Hannibal took the car and went into town. Will worked frenetically in his absence. His initially languorous movements soon gained impetus; he broke into a sweat and kept going through the prickling heat of it, his breath coming in faint hisses.

Hannibal returned a few hours later with about a hundred shopping bags, which Will helped heft inside from the trunk of the car. Groceries for the kitchen, toiletries for the bathroom, bed sheets and pillow cases, towels, napkins, cleaning supplies, even some clothes.

Come evening, the house had the semblance of a home. Though it was only that: the semblance. 

It was not the lingering dishevelment that made it so, nor the stamp of stagnation of a long uninhabited place. It was something altogether less definite yet more tangible. Reminiscent of when Will had looked at the three stools in the kitchen the previous day, its characteristic was an absence, a lapse of some sort. Whatever it was that really made a home did not reside here. This place was transitory.

Later that night, Will ran a hot bath and peeled off his clothes, stepping into the half-filled tub. The water streamed out of the tap, loud as a waterfall in the silent bathroom. He reclined, allowing his body to relax into the soothing warmth, which felt good enough to wrench a groan from his lips. 

During the day, his physical exertion had amounted to something visceral, rather close to catharsis. He hadn't realized though how much tension his body held, which now began to seep out, along with the day's fatigue. He shut his eyes, made himself think of nothing, becoming a creature of sensation, his mind eased into respite by the steady rush of water. When the tub was filled, he shut off the tap. The faucet knob was cool to touch and creaked when he turned it. 

Quiet again. The walls had fogged over, he noticed. He drew an idle finger through the condensation, marking a line.

Earlier, Hannibal had cooked, properly. Lunch was a simple repast of stuffed tomatoes, but for dinner, he had made a redolent stew, rich and hearty, served with thick slices of homemade bread. They consumed both meals with only a smattering of conversation.

There were many pockets of silence growing around them of late.

-

Of course it only took a number of days for Hannibal to establish something of a routine. It began with breakfast, which he served at eight every morning, the sounds and scents luring Will to the kitchen, to accept a cup of coffee with a murmured greeting. On mornings when he woke up late, Hannibal left him a portion of food covered in foil on the counter.

Other meals were also timed to the minute. The rest of his day, Hannibal spent in quiet productivity. He was always doing something or the other while Will idled away: reading or sketching, writing sometimes. He spent hours in the small study with its heavy desk and high-backed leather chair. 

The house, which after a few days of cleaning Will believed to be in a decent state, was apparently not up to mark, because he kept fussing at it, until eventually every surface in the kitchen positively gleamed and the windows were spotless, the wooden floors buffed to a gloss. He got Will to shift furniture with him, the two of them heaving a sofa this way and that, or changing the way an armchair faced.

Every now and then, he drove into town for food and supplies. He always made a point of announcing these trips. If Will was in the living room, for instance, sagging against the armchair, eyes fixed on nothing, Hannibal would stand with a hand on the door frame to say: I’m driving to town to buy so and so; I will be gone for this amount of time, and he would await Will’s mute nod of acknowledgement before he left. Will didn’t know why he bothered.

He returned from such a trip once in high spirits; he began to describe the winter farmers market where he found exquisite quail eggs and some type of cheese or the other, while Will heard every word distantly, as though from underwater. The very movement of Hannibal's mouth around each syllable seemed sluggish.

I ought to be dead, it occurred to Will, staring at him. We both ought to be dead.

At his silent reception, Hannibal wound down and moved to put away the things. A slight moue was the only indication of his displeasure –he did not remark on it.

The fact was, through the length of their stint outside the law, Will’s attitude bordered on passivity. He experienced everything through a shroud of detachment, or unreality. Hannibal who suffered an injury far worse than his was the one who took care of most of everything; tended to their wounds, saw to arranging safe hideouts for them to recuperate in. It was Hannibal who brought them here to this house, with his resourcefulness, his inexorable zest for life.

Will, on the other hand, lost track of time. Days diffused into one another. Had it been a month? More? He could not tell. He was steeped in lassitude. 

He had simply not thought about them coming this far; had not considered their survival, or what would come afterwards. He had pulled the two of them down the cliff that night with an amorphous desire not only to end –but to preserve (as a fossil in amber) the magnificent thing they had wrought together in killing. The culmination of their bond; climax to their blood-soaked saga; a conclusion as just as it was poetic.

Yet here they were, lingering still.

Will remembered, one of the initial days after the fall, waking up to a shaft of light cutting through a crack in the murky green curtains. He recalled the rancid smell of the motel room, the heaviness of his body as its aches began to assert themselves. Above all, he recalled the sudden feeling of disappointment which overtook him in its intensity: a piercing lance, ripping through his consciousness entirely.

It was less that he had lived and more the knowledge –unbearable in that moment– that he would never again have a death as perfect.

What did one do with that? How did one proceed? How could the future hold anything but slow descent into atrophy?

-

He stepped into the bedroom one afternoon to find a freshly bathed Hannibal sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up, attempting to cut his toenails. By the tight line of his mouth, Will could tell his wound was causing him some discomfort.

“Let me,” he said, extending his hand towards the nail cutter. Hannibal began to object, but Will continued to hold his hand out, wordlessly. 

A slow blink, followed by acquiescence; he relinquished it. Will settled on the bed, then, bending at the hip to face Hannibal, who relaxed and pushed a foot forward with a small exhalation. 

Will touched his ankle tentatively, directing him to turn his foot up, then began to clip his toenails, carefully. He tried to maintain a perfunctory touch, but there was an unwitting intimacy to the affair. It was something a mother would do for her child, for instance. Tender.

Hannibal’s eyes were trained on his him as he worked and he felt heat come up to his cheeks. To diffuse some of the tension he asked, “Does it trouble you often? Your wound.”

“Not often. It’s healing as well as I can hope.”

Done with the left foot, he started on the other. He noticed a tiny black mole in the junction of Hannibal’s first two toes. “That’s good," he said.

"Yes.”

He ensured that every sliver of clipped nail fell onto the tissue paper smoothed down on the bed for that purpose. When he was done, he folded the nail cutter and gathered the tissue up to be discarded.

“Thank you,” said Hannibal, so sincerely it flustered Will, who mumbled it was nothing, not meeting his eyes. In doing so, he hadn't seen that Hannibal's were lowered too, oddly demure.

There was a time when speaking to Hannibal was effortless; when they shared a scintillating rapport that filled Will with lightness, a sense of belonging, interjecting an age of alienation. Now this fumbling.  
Something had shifted in their dynamic. It wasn't just the fall; it was the gulf of three years, yawning between them. All that space and time. Strange to think on how much longer they had been apart than in each other's company, since the moment they first met in Jack's office.

Anyhow they were bound together now; closer than ever (physically, if not in spirit) and Will was clueless to advance. Instinct warred with reservation. Every interaction left him with unsettling self-consciousness.   
  
For the first time since he had known him perhaps, Hannibal was an enigma to him. Will could not understand Hannibal's tolerance to his listlessness, his reticence, even. 

He wondered when this apparent reserve of patience would deplete. He wondered what Hannibal would exact from him, then. 

-

Being the only room untouched by Hannibal, the attic became Will’s lair. He tidied a little, just enough to make it tolerable. Aside from the sole chair by the window, there was some clutter pushed up to the wall –a broken table, some boxes, which he looked through in a desultory way.

He took one down, an offering. “Found these in the attic. Thought you might use them. If you wanted.”

Peering into the box, Hannibal ran his finger over the edge of a ceramic plate, unadorned but for a line of gold around its rim. He smiled placidly, in a way that set Will’s teeth on edge. “I could take them back up,” Will ground out, but Hannibal thanked him dutifully. He washed the plates under scalding water. That night he served dinner on them.

Throughout the meal, Will endured the uncomfortable feeling of being an indulged fool. He wished he’d left them where they were.

-

Behind the house stood a battered shed, which Will eventually ventured out to inspect. He realized at the doorstep, as he made to leave, that since he entered the house, weeks ago (How many weeks? Half a dozen? More?), he had not set his foot out. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. The need hadn’t arisen.

On some deeper level he was aware of a compulsion to self-isolate behind walls, to set himself apart from a world to which he had become effectively estranged. At best of times he had dwelled at its fringes; now, he was denied that too. Completely cut off, existence limited to these defined perimeters.

He paused at the threshold, holding open the door. He pictured himself going out, like a flickering image vanishing off a screen, upon his egress. No such thing occurred. A step, two –he was solid still. He crossed the porch, planted both feet on the earth and looked around.

The winter sun had a pale quality to its light, dappling through the branches of the ash trees. A shiver passed through him. He hadn’t dressed for the cold, clothed in slacks and a button up flannel. He soldiered on though, strode around the house across patchy brown grass.

The door of the shed was secured with a rusty bolt. Inside he found all the expected things: a ladder, shears, a rake, a shovel, an axe, a wheelbarrow. There were a few logs of wood. There was a toolkit, which he took inside with him.

The attic’s broken table he undertook as a repair project. He spent a day replacing its missing leg with one which he hewed and sanded down from a log. 

Carpentry was never his forte, but he managed decently enough, he reckoned. In spite of the table’s slight wobble. It could use a coat of varnish too, but he found none, and he preferred not to ask Hannibal to get him any. 

What he really itched for was something mechanical instead, a clunky boat motor to tinker with; losing hours in the process of actually fixing something, the feeling of accomplishment afterwards. But one made do.

He began to spend more and more time upstairs. He busied himself with bits of woodwork, though sometimes, with more frequency, he did nothing at all but sit on the chair, contemplating his surroundings. The window; the branches of the trees outside; the rafters above him. His own two hands. He thought of nothing.

It occurred to him over dinner, that though Hannibal spoke to him through the day (Good morning, Will. Come to lunch, Will. Dinner is ready. Cream baked endive, winter greens salad) he hadn’t said a word back. He had merely nodded, or made a low grunt in response. The realization disturbed him. He opened his mouth to say something right then, but found nothing to say. He had nothing to communicate. He placed his fork down.

“Is the dish not to your liking?” Hannibal inquired. Will said nothing. Rude of him. He didn’t care.

-

In the dream, the two of them were surrounded by a bare stretch of land. Hannibal held a shovel in his hands, loosely. Without preamble, he drove it to the ground and began to shovel dirt with precise force.

He was immaculate once the task was done: not a hair out of place, not a speck of dust on his black leather shoes, polished to a perfect shine. He set the shovel aside and examined the hole he dug. Then his eyes snapped up to Will’s eyes, and he smirked.

A living, beating heart materialized in the cup of his hands suddenly, oozing blood. The thump of its contracting muscle was insufferably, abnormally loud.

Will knew, the way one simply knows in a dream, that the heart belonged to Molly.

Hannibal crouched down to plant it in the ground. He covered it up and patted the soil on top with undisguised relish. When he straightened up, his hands were miraculously spotless again.

The pulse of the smothered heart throbbed against Will’s eardrums, growing fainter and fainter, eventually slowing to a halt. From where it was buried, something pushed out of the ground –a sprig shooting up with rapid speed, branching out and issuing an abundance of black leaves, until a tall bush stood between the two of them. 

At the tip of the bush, a single bud swelled in size. One instant, it remained tightly sealed, swaying a little; the next, it unfurled to reveal an exquisite rose: velvety, and red as blood.

Hannibal plucked it. He offered the flower to Will with a lurid gleam in his eyes. In place of thorns, stag antlers curved up from the stem of the rose grotesquely.

A moment stretched on, horridly, when Will was frozen, split between accepting and not accepting it.

He woke up.

Some time back, Will had noticed that his wedding band was missing. At the time, he couldn’t shake off the thought that Hannibal was responsible. His mind supplied with ease the exact expression Hannibal would wear while slipping it off, tossing it aside: impassive, if not for a touch of distaste. He was not above such pettiness.

Presently, Will ran his thumb over the place where the ring used to sit and wondered: did Hannibal throw it, or did the ocean wash it away? He also wondered why he did not notice sooner.

In truth, he'd avoided thoughts of Molly altogether. They generally came in a tangle of guilt and sharp self-loathing.

He hadn't wished to admit to himself that knew, from the start, that it was not right. Good, perhaps, in some ways, but fundamentally not right, because _he_ was not right; because he had a taint on him that seeped to everything he held near. A child, the idea of a child. A family. 

When he saw Molly at the hospital after the Dragon’s attack, fragile pale and limp, filth had clung to him like a heavy, viscous fog. He could hardly touch her, sully her that way. He had as good as lead death to her very door.

He allowed himself to think of her now. Her easy laugh, the smell of her hair, the roundness of her cheeks. God, he really thought that he loved her. Perhaps he had; did, still. He didn’t know. Perhaps he didn’t miss her as much as he missed the delusion she gave him. Something easy and comfortable, approximating normalcy. What a spectacular disaster.

He turned to his side and looked across at Hannibal who was asleep, deeply, turned away from him. Hannibal had ruthlessly stripped him of his delusion. Hannibal also would have had his wife killed. Now Will shared a bed with him.

Unannounced, a boulder of loneliness pressed down upon him. The weight of it he’d borne all his life; it was as familiar to him as a limb of his own body; yet he was certain he had never felt it more acutely than in that very moment.

Not in the house in Wolf Trap, on nights when his dogs were his only company and it wasn't enough, nowhere near enough; not when he was institutionalized in BSHCI; not even when he awoke to an empty hospital room, with the knowledge that Abigail was dead, a second time (God, a second time), Hannibal long gone.

During those instances, he had had work, purpose, some incentive for action. There was none now. He was truly aimless, a brittle leaf, swept along an eddy of ceaseless, hollow time.

The urge to cry rose in him sharply. But he did not cry. He curled up and made himself go very still, watching the figure of Hannibal’s back in the darkness, his deep breathing, out in, out in, out in, until the tightness in his chest subsided in slow increments.

He slept fitfully the rest of the night, drifting in and out of wakefulness. By the time dawn began to break, he gave up on sleep altogether.

From the part in the curtains, darkness was receding. Roseate light began to fill the room, pale and cool. Hannibal had turned towards him at some point. Will observed his face, relaxed in slumber, open to him in a way it otherwise wasn't. His jaw was peppered with light stubble. His hair had grown out of the short prison cut, streaked faintly with grey. The lines of his age were softened in the dimness.  
  
Hannibal woke, as though roused by the intensity of Will’s scrutiny. It was a very subtle thing, his eyelids, peacefully shut, lifting up, eyes falling on Will’s face.

“What do you dream of?”

  
Hannibal considered the question with a minute purse of his upper lip, a gesture Will had always found unspeakably endearing. “Nothing particular,” he said.  
“Just ordinary things ordinary people dream of?”  
“More or less.”  
"What were you dreaming of, just this instance?"  
"I'm afraid it has already slipped away."  
  
Will said nothing, but his silence was expectant, and so in a moment Hannibal obliged him:  
"Things that constitute my daily life and occupy my mind. A jumble of art and violence, amplified to theatricality, or absurdity at times. Colours are particularly vivid, and scents.”   
“There are a few recurrent locations in which they take place. The backdrop of my formative years. My childhood home. Boarding school."  
He went on in a quiet murmur, Will drawn by the movement of his mouth.  
"I dream lucidly on occasion. It isn't much different from spending time in the memory palace. I might attend an opera performance. I relive conversations, or have new ones."  
He paused.  
“I dream of you, sometimes.”  
“Yeah?" Will shifted, "What do I do in your dreams?”  
Hannibal smiled, a deliberate mischievous thing, youthful and full of teeth. “A great number of things.”

-

Having woken up early, Hannibal did not return to sleep, but rose for the day, taking the opportunity to get some baking done. Will followed him to the kitchen and watched his proceedings from the perch of a stool. 

He took his apron out of a drawer and tied it on. He rolled up his sleeves. With smooth efficiency, he took out all the ingredients he needed and set them on the counter. In a clear glass cup, he mixed yeast with sugar, stirred warm water into it. He began to measure and sift flour. Eventually, a dough formed which he worked for minutes on end in a hypnotic rhythm, compressing and stretching, the muscles in his arms shifting rivetingly.

When he kneaded it to satisfaction, he placed the dough in an oiled bowl and covered it with a towel, setting it aside. "Coffee?" he asked, wiping his hands off. Will nodded.

In the early morning, the kitchen was the very image of a domestic den. The smooth counters which Hannibal kept impeccably clean glowed with soft illumination. The warm scent of rising bread suffused the air, mixed with coffee, which Hannibal prepared in a French press.

After last night's dream, the settling peace of the moment rang false. Will wished to let it lull him, but he also wished to punch a hole right through it. 

Hannibal handed him his coffee and sat opposite him with a cup of his own. "How long were you awake before me?"

Will shrugged. "Hours of half wakefulness."

"Something on your mind?"

"You can say that."

Steam curled out of Will's cup as silence stretched between them, elastic, like the dough Hannibal pulled moments earlier. And then, suddenly: "Did you throw away my wedding ring?"

The question hung in the air. Hannibal did not react, except for a slight tightening near his eyes, which gave Will his answer, although he said, "No. I did not throw it away."

The slight emphasis on 'throw' did not escape Will. Its clear implication.

"Resorting to semantics, doctor?” 

Silent admittance. Will passed a hand over his face. He took a sip of hot coffee.

"I wondered when you'd notice.”

"A while ago. Thought I might have lost it to the Atlantic."

"Are you not going to ask for it back?"

He examined Hannibal's face then. It was genuinely curious, with something underneath, a suppressed eagerness that rather resembled hunger. It was not a taunt, although it sounded like one.

"I have no use for it," Will finally answered.

Behind the lip of his cup, Hannibal hid an upward twitch of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are in secondary draft form. The plan is, they're going up in a week's time, each. Comments are much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal chopped onions smoothly, like it was art, lifting his wrist to make precise cuts, sweeping evenly sized onion cubes to a heap.

Transfixed, Will watched him, the knife he wielded beating a blunt rhythm as it hit the cutting board. _Thunk, thunk, thunk_. Something stirred within his chest. A twinge of some emotion it took him a while to place as envy. Even out here, uprooted from any sort of life he had known, Hannibal Lecter had purpose, carried himself as such. It were as though he had an internal compass; though he faced displacement he never lost direction. 

Years ago, Will stood outside an ambulance while Hannibal snapped gloves on and held a man’s kidney to keep him from dying. He had felt something similar then: a quiet sense of awe, and a quiet covetousness too.

That incident seemed so remote now; something out of a box, collecting dust, along a pile of other things one couldn’t bring oneself to throw away, but couldn’t take out either. Too precious, and painful. Will couldn't think of those early days without a spike of grief.

-

Now and then, he entertained thoughts of leaving. He envisioned scenarios where he took off wordlessly; imagined a life shaped by Hannibal’s permanent absence. Peaceable days spent by some boat yard, making an earnest living with his hands. Fishing often. In these idle daydreams, he was always alone. He had given up on the feasibility of anything else. He had learned his lesson too well.

There would be dogs though, as many as he could keep. A whole pack of strays that he’d feed and bathe and groom. He’d take them on so many walks; they’d be so well-looked after.

Of course he knew nothing would come of it. He hadn’t the strength to leave, really. Nor the means, when he considered it.

Everything in his present life, he owed to Hannibal. The roof over his head, the clothes on his back, the food in his belly. Perhaps he ought to feel gratitude, but his resentment festered.

Across from him, in the living room, Hannibal, sat on the sofa, legs crossed, looking at a newspaper. The insouciance of his posture was unreasonably maddening. Becoming aware of Will’s stare, he glanced up. 

“Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” he answered, standing up, striding away.

-

He woke up in the dead of the night, blank of any bad dream, though that only served to unsettle him further. He sat up and waited for his eyes to make what they could of the darkness. He crept out of bed quietly, mindful not to wake Hannibal.

He made his way out, guided by the nightlight from the hallway. He crossed the living room and pulled open one of the curtains to look outside.

An emaciated moon hung on the jet black sky, a faint sliver with a misty cloud fanning it.

An impulse led Will to the study, which he hardly ever entered. Just as the attic was by some unspoken agreement his own territory, the study was Hannibal’s. It felt illicit to be there. He switched on the small desk lamp, bathing the walls in yellow light.

The walls had shelves, but they were mostly empty. The scant books neatly stacked there were recent acquisitions by Hannibal on the road, from his occasional trips to town, classics in cheap paperbacks. Will trailed his fingertips over their spines.

On the desk was a black folder holding pencil sketches on white paper. He went through them, standing up. Some were cityscapes done in meticulous detail. There were figure drawings and portraits. Quite a few were of him, he found –his profile, a brooding seriousness to his brow –him on the armchair, a distant look in his eye.

Will felt strangely exposed. He couldn’t bear to look at the rest. He put the papers back in order, replacing the folder on the desk in the approximate spot he found it, though he knew Hannibal would know he touched it anyway.

There was also a notebook which he saw Hannibal write in often, a journal perhaps, but he left it undisturbed; he’d intruded enough for the night.

He went back to the bedroom and slid under the cover. Hannibal stirred beside him in the dark. “Trouble sleeping again?”

Why was he always stating the obvious?

“Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s alright.” A pause. “Shall I make you a warm drink?"

“No,” he said, more brusquely than he’d intended. Then, gentler: “Go back to sleep, Hannibal.”

-

A few days later, he walked in on Hannibal emptying the laundry hamper. His approach prompted an abrupt movement of Hannibal’s –singular, because Will had never seen him startle before. He'd have assumed him preternaturally incapable of it. In his hands he clutched one of Will's unwashed shirts. A moment prior, it was pressed to his face.

Now Hannibal stood rigidly, uncharacteristically distressed. It took a few seconds to register that Hannibal had been smelling the shirt.

A hot flush of mortification washed over Will. He averted his eyes and promptly left the room.

-

Visible in the distance, a little uphill, was a copse of trees beyond the shed. One afternoon, the idea took hold of Will to trek up to it. Hannibal was taking a bath; Will could hear the running water inside. He briefly considered knocking on the bathroom door to let him know, but shrugged the thought away. 

It would be a half an hour’s walk, he gauged, and he welcomed the exercise.  

Outside, he drew crisp air into his lungs and rolled his shoulders. The walk was uneventful, a blessed nothingness, untinged by the numbness that characterized his absences of thought lately. It warmed him, buoyed him up. 

There were swiftly-moving clouds in the sky –now eclipsing the sun, now unveiling its rays. The effect was a constant variance of light. He reached his destination, comprised of around a dozen trees or so, huddled together, most bare-branched, though a few were evergreen, their leaves rustling. He sat at the foot of a tree, resting his back against the trunk to catch his breath.

From where he sat, he had a far-off view of the back of the house, peaking through the gaps in its surrounding ashes. It looked small, quite removed from him. 

Perhaps Hannibal was out of the bath by now, damp haired, in one of his pristine white bathrobes. 

In spite of the stilted state of their relationship, there was a new sense of accessibility to him, peeled out of his sharp suits. He dressed in button-ups and cosy sweaters, an outward softening. There were other things too, each one previously foreign. The sight of him asleep. Unshaven. His unshod feet, which at one particular moment caused a throb of tenderness in Will, much like sorrow.

Will stayed a while beneath the tree, savouring the moment's peace. When the cold became biting, he got up and dusted the back of his pants.

-

He found Hannibal in the kitchen, sat on a stool, his hands folded on the counter, one atop the other. "Where have you been?”  
He said it so calmly that at first Will did not notice the strain with which he held himself.

“Out walking."  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“I didn’t plan it. You were in the bath and–”  
“It didn’t occur to you to leave a note?”  
“No," he frowned, "It didn’t. Why are you interrogating me?”

With every question, Hannibal’s tone had dropped in temperature. "Have I ever left this house without letting you know?" he said.  
"I don't ask you to!"  
"It's common courtesy."  
"Really."  
  
Hannibal's mouth tightened. “Wash your hands. Lunch is ready.”  
“I’m not hungry.”  
“Don’t make scenes with me, Will. Wash your hands then come to eat.”

It was the particular instruction to wash his hands that grated the most. Like Will was a child, or some savage to be schooled in etiquette. “I said I’m not hungry," he gritted out and trampled his way to the bedroom. 

He kicked his shoes off, shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on the bed. The cold condescension of the entire exchange infuriated him endlessly.  
  
_He_  was the one making a scene? For weeks,  _weeks_ , he had hardly ever set a foot out of this damn house. Now he couldn't take a walk without permission? Would Hannibal rather keep him on a leash?  
His deep resentment reared up, his bitterness at the possibility that Hannibal was entitled to some part of his life, because he provided for it; because this wasn't Will's house, really, and that gave Hannibal the right to some expectation of him.

A large part of him though was merely incredulous. The episode was so thoroughly banal, he could hardly believe it had transpired.   
  
When the worst of his anger wore itself out, he became aware that he was, in fact, quite hungry. He ignored it. When he finally left the bedroom, Hannibal was nowhere in sight, in his study most likely. Irritably, Will drifted upstairs to keep out of the way.  
  
-  
  
It did not dawn upon him until hours later –after the uncomfortable meal that was dinner: its screaming silence, Hannibal's stony face, the jarring scrape of cutlery.

He puzzled over Hannibal's manner, which wasn't simply affronted, but audaciously, incomprehensibly injured –until it struck him like a mallet –the stunning recollection of the ardour with which Hannibal had pressed his unwashed shirt to his face. 

Oh.

“You thought I’d left for good, didn’t you?"

Hannibal was at the sink, washing the dishes, his back to Will. His hands went still, his shoulders a stiff line.  
Will made a disbelieving sound. "Where would I even go?" 

Something snapped, then, and Hannibal whirled to face him. "You tell me. Where are you gone in your mind, when it has been days and you haven't said a word to me?" He had soap suds in his hands, water dripping to the floor. "Do you feel trapped here, Will?  Confined to a life you want no part of."  
"No..."   
"No?"   
  
The long-dreaded moment had arrived: Hannibal's deceptive patience snapped like a twig. Will's lips twisted wryly.

Hannibal tipped his head forward. His eyes were murder; voice dangerously steely. "I must be missing the joke."

Will had only seen him this volatile once. It was in another kitchen, years ago, and it had yielded ruin. Recklessly, the thought entered his mind that he could goad Hannibal into killing him, right that instant. It wouldn't be hard to find the right thing to say. Something derisive beyond Hannibal's tolerance, wringing out his violence. For a moment, every nerve in Will's body thrilled at the prospect. 

He was ready to die with him, before. Perhaps it was best to die by his hand, after all.  
  
The image persisted, however, of Hannibal's nose burrowing into his shirt for the scent of him, as if he sought for something, closeness or comfort. It was so terribly sad. The destructive impulse dissipated; in its wake Will felt weary.   
  
"There isn’t one," he answered.  
  
 -  
  
Hannibal was awake. 

 Will knew this, even though when he called to him in the dark, he didn't answer. "Hannibal," he called again. This time, he received a clipped: “What do you want, Will?”

“Turn around.”

It seemed that Hannibal would ignore him, but after a while, he slowly shifted to rest on his back.

Will switched on the lamp on his side of the bed, then leaned over, propped on an elbow. He placed a hand on Hannibal’s chest and looked down at him. His body obstructed the lamplight, throwing a shadow over Hannibal, who was motionless, regarding him with a mixture of wariness and perplexity.

Will kissed him, softly.  
  
When he lifted up to look at him again, he found Hannibal wide-eyed, lips parted, dazedly. A charged moment passed between them. So many things unsaid. Then Hannibal covered the hand that rested on his chest with his own, put another on the nape of Will’s neck, and drew him down again, gently, turning his face up.  
  
They kissed, deeper this time, Hannibal’s fingers slipping into Will's hair, his thumb brushing over Will’s knuckles.  
  
-

  
“Would you ever let me go? If I really wanted to leave.”  
“I can’t tell you what I’d do. You…undo me.”  
“You'd kill me? Eat me? Like you planned to in Italy?"  
"Will."  
"You can't suffer my independence of you, the thought of your irrelevance to me–"

"Will."

"The precious gift you bestowed unwanted, worthless–”

“Enough–”  
  
Will silenced him with a vicious kiss. He bit hard on Hannibal’s lower lip, startling a wounded noise out of him. His teeth left a shallow cut that a tiny bead of blood welled from. He put his thumb there, smearing it; Hannibal's lip shone with it.  
  
He put his tongue out, touching the wound. He tasted Hannibal's blood. He drew the lip into his mouth. Hannibal made another desperate sound –low, and rather sweet. Full of yearning.

Hannibal loved him with the intensity of one who had spent a lifetime loveless. Decades worth of it, gushing out in excess. He had bared to Will the freakish heart of him, the shape of it, in dead distorted flesh. 

Hannibal had thrown his life away for him. Will had told him ‘I don’t want to think about you anymore’ and he had gone out and turned himself in, rather than ever accept a severing of ties. 

Hannibal loved him. Was in love with him. 

_"But do you ache for him?"_

Of course he did.

Yes.

-

Sharing a bed meant that no matter how careful they were of each other, there were times when they moved towards each other unconsciously, bodies touching, a foot to a calf, or a shoulder bumping a shoulder. One sleepless night, Will had felt Hannibal roll up behind him until his breath ghosted the back of his neck warmly. Other times they woke up facing each other, heads resting on the same pillow, so near Will could count every individual eyelash of Hannibal’s if he wanted.

There was much awkwardness, initially, a pointed resolution not to address or comment on this thing between them, which only made it heavier. 

Later that night, when the light was off again, Hannibal waited a few moments before he snaked his hand under the cover to alight on Will's waist. His touch was tentative, a question mark. 

Without considering it too much, Will inched his body nearer, narrowing the gap between them –and then Hannibal’s arm drew him up to him, closer,  _closer_ , until their bodies pressed together, fitting together, chest to chest, with a faint susurration of sheets. 

Quietude enveloped them like a cocoon.

Will’s heart behaved ridiculously. And yet, with his chest crushed to his, he could feel the beat of Hannibal’s heart too, frantic as his own: a muffled syncopated thumping. 

-

The next time Hannibal was leaving the house, Will blurted out, “Wait, I’ll come with you.”

  
Taken aback, but clearly pleased, Hannibal answered, “If you like,” and waited while Will hurried to the bedroom to put on a jacket, a pair of shoes and a beanie. He came out in a bit, a scarf trailing in his grasp.

"All set?"

"Yeah," said Will, looping the scarf around his neck. Hannibal smiled fondly and stepped close, straightening it for him. "Let's go."

When he started the engine, the radio came on, tuned to a classical music station.  
It was a relatively bright day, with tufty clouds near the horizon. They drove on through the road, crossing even miles dotted by trees and occasional sprays of heather.

The farmer's market was on the edge of town, a cluster of tents and stalls, with pathways of people milling about in activity. It was not so small that they would stand out noticeably, any more than the others, and Hannibal had selected the hour when it was busiest. 

It was strange for Will to be in the midst of so many people at once, after weeks of solitude. He trailed close to Hannibal, carrying his bags for him as he fastidiously went about inspecting the produce. A mild anxiety gripped Will of being separated from him, lost to the crowd. He almost wanted to tuck his hand into the crook of Hannibal's elbow as they walked along. Almost. 

They were lovers now, he supposed. Weren't they? After that night they shared a few more kisses. Mostly kisses good morning and kisses good night. The mounting tension of the previous weeks resolved itself in part, though there was a tenuous edge to how they approached each other still, probing the dimensions of this new space their relationship occupied.

Hannibal's interactions with some of the vendors had an air of familiarity. He greeted them politely, engaged with a few in small talk pertaining to the goods they had to offer. 

Will wasn't paying much attention –he was watching the scab on Hannibal's lower lip where he had bitten him, when Hannibal turned to him, a plump persimmon in hand. “What do you think? Would you like these?"

The fruit was bright saffron, the colour of a sunset; firm and rotund. Will found himself the center of attention of the elderly woman behind the stall, who gave him a pleasant smile. She had kind brown eyes and a thick braid of silver hair that hung down a shoulder. Will recognized her immediately, with a jolt, from one of the portraits in Hannibal’s study. It was a striking likeness.  

-

Will offered to drive back afterwards and Hannibal made easy conversation from the passenger seat. The persimmons would go into a salad, with pomegranates they had at home. Some he'd reserve for dessert, though he wasn't decided yet. A pudding, perhaps? Will didn't mind a pudding. Alright, a pudding. 

A piano composition issued from the radio. Atmospheric and serene, though it intensified midway to a nearly troubled sound. It sounded familiar to Will. He cast a line to the recess of his mind.

“Nocturne number one. Satie.”   
"That is correct,” Hannibal glanced at him. “Is there something particular about it?"  
"An old memory. From when I was a kid. 14, maybe."  
"Go on."  
"A girl I had a crush on played it at a school recital."

"She must have been exceptionally good to warrant your recollection, all these years later."

"Well," Will drawled, "It can't have been that difficult to impress me. An uncultured kid with an untrained ear, bias notwithstanding. Unlike present company."

He was looking at the road ahead, but he caught Hannibal's grin from the corner of his eye and couldn’t keep his own in check. It was almost painful.

If only it could be this easy, always.

-

Hannibal's hands were bigger than Will's hands. They were broader, corded with prominent veins; the ends of his fingertips were squared, where Will's tapered to a gentler curve. There was strength in them.

But they were softer than they looked. Softer than Will's hands that had known years of rough work, calloused with it. The care he took of them was evident. 

Doctor's hands, steady and precise; dexterous and skilled. Artist's hands. Killer's hands. Made for brutality and refinement alike: the balance of his savage gentility, typified.

Half on top of him in bed, Hannibal drew away after much kissing and said, “May I touch you, Will?”

Something about the question struck Will as absurd. A sudden and clammy sort of awareness of every instance Hannibal had taken liberty with body. Hannibal’s hands on him, forcing a tube down his throat, or bringing a saw to his forehead. Marks of these transgressions borne outwardly and stamped on his psyche.

Will forced himself not to think of that now, because he did not want to ruin the moment, when the anticipation had coiled so tight in his belly; instead he chose to point out, without inflection: “You’re already touching me.”

An amused puff of air. Hannibal narrowed his eyes till they were bright slits in his face; his lips took on a sensuous, pouty aspect. “May I undress you, Will?” he whispered, silkily. “May I put my mouth on you? May I–"

“Yes,” Will said, just to get him to stop, “Do anything you like.”

“Anything?”

“No…I mean–”

Frustration rose in him. He had no words to express how he felt, caught between desire and apprehension. Hannibal spared him. “Stop me if you are at all uncomfortable.”

Will nodded.

Hannibal pressed his face to Will’s neck, breathing heavily. He lifted up Will's shirt, till it was rucked underneath his underarms, then trailed the tip of his nose down Will’s chest. He pressed his cheek to him, nuzzling; he breathed in the scent of his skin, rubbing his face all over it. He did it so devotedly that Will knew instinctively that this was something he had long longed to do.  
  
Hannibal’s hands were warm as he touched him. His mouth soft and teasing, making Will shiver and press his lips together. He settled between Will’s thighs, and there he began to leave lingering kisses. Closer and closer to the one place where the effect of his attentions made itself apparent. Then, he unhinged his jaw, slowly, lips parting, like an opening bud –to touch his wet, hot tongue –to Will’s hot sex. He let out a groan of deep hunger before he took Will into his mouth.  
  
Hannibal luxuriated in drawing it out, making a feast of him. He was even more vocal than Will whose only noises were hitches in his laboured breathing.   
  
At length, he pulled back, replacing his reddened, glistening mouth with his hand. He shifted so he was on his side, all along Will’s body, leaning over him, watching his face intently. Drinking in every sign of pleasure he elicited, dropping a kiss or two by Will's temple. He slowed the movement of his hand to a drawn-out pace, tight and deliberate.  
  
It was too much. Will turned his head to his shoulder, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand.  
  
“No,” said Hannibal, taking hold of the hand, pulling it away. He touched Will’s cheek with gentle insistence. “Don’t hide your face from me,” he said, and the look he wore was a contradiction, intense yet impossibly soft. Swimming in adoration.  
  
Will came with a quiet moan, hips lifted off the bed. Hannibal beheld it raptly, greedily, as though his eyes couldn't get their fill of him. They appeared lacquered in the lamplight, deep and dark.    
  
He got up and made his way to the bathroom, emerging with a warm damp towel. He sat on the bed by Will and used it to clean him up. No one should seem so pleased to perform a task as this, yet everything about Hannibal’s manner transmitted deep contentment. He wiped away the traces of Will's climax lovingly.  
  
Hannibal had been so in charge of the entire situation that it didn't occur to Will to ask until he had put away the towel and settled in next to him. “Don’t you want me to–?”  
  
Hannibal shook his head. “Some other time. I just want to look at you.”

When the lights were out he drew Will to him, lavishing trailing caresses. Will’s eyelids drooped with drowsiness, and soon he was pulled into deep, dreamless sleep.  

- 

In the light of day, the events of last night brought on a wave of dismay. 

It was not that Will did not like being touched by Hannibal. On the contrary. He liked it too much. He recalled with embarrassment the ease with which Hannibal had gotten him off while he simply lay there, supine and overwhelmed. Hannibal hadn’t even undressed.  
  
Will grappled with suppressed discomfort at the thought of being under Hannibal’s power. For so long he had resisted his influence, refusing to let himself become malleable in his hands. He hated to associate this and that, to think of this new intimacy between them in these terms, but he couldn’t help it. He felt exposed, compromised in a way, while Hannibal remained unaffected.  
  
Complicating things was a sense of ineptitude too. His failure to reciprocate, magnified by the knowledge that Hannibal was denied this sort of intimacy for three years; more, maybe.

It led Will to an unsavoury train of thought. All those months in Europe with Bedelia at his side, playing at his wife –did they consummate their illusionary marriage?

It was none of his business, and Will wasn't jealous, not really, but he begrudged it. Hannibal living it up, while he had toiled to put together the shattered pieces of himself, clinging to the ghost of what was cruelly taken from him.  
  
The wound on Hannibal's lip had mostly healed. It would not leave a mark. Will wished it would. He wanted to impart a visible trace of his hold on Hannibal. He wanted to unravel him, just as he was unraveled. He wanted to wrench all manner of helpless noises out of him. 

-  
  
And so the next time in bed, he pushed Hannibal down with perhaps more emphasis than necessary. Hannibal remained fairly pliant, curious, smiling a little. 

Will leaned to his ear and said, "You can't touch me." 

He began to unbutton Hannibal's shirt deliberately, one button at a time, watching the widening gap of exposed skin down his torso, until he reached the last one and parted the shirt, letting it fall to the sides to crumple on the bed.

He looked a long time. He let his eyes roam and linger in ways he hadn't allowed himself before, over the expanse of Hannibal's chest as it rose and fell with his breath, the grain of his hair there, his belly, firm but yielding.   
  
Will unbuttoned Hannibal's pants and tugged them off. He made himself look there too. Heat came up to Will's face, the back of his neck. He put his hand to Hannibal's member; he acquainted himself with the shape of it, the texture of the delicate skin there, coaxing it to full arousal.

Hannibal breathed shallowly, his eyelids fluttering. He made soft encouraging sounds. "Will," he sighed, "Will..."

Will stopped the motion of his hand, drawing out a small whine. He rose up on his knees and pulled his own pants down. He came forward and lowered his body onto Hannibal's so they were aligned, chest to chest, hip to hip. He kissed him deeply and began to rub against him. 

Hannibal was either too worked up to heed his instruction, or he didn't care. His hands came up to grasp at Will as they struck up a rhythm, a grinding back and forth, rutting against each other. He clutched at Will's thighs, passed his hands over his back, held Will's waist.  

“God," he said breathlessly, heart in his eyes, "but you’re beautiful aren’t you?” 

-

There was a gradual change in the weather. The days were getting warmer and longer. The ashes outside began to put out buds. 

Hannibal bought pots of herbs for the kitchen. Chives, mint, basil, rosemary, prettily lined up on the window sill. More and more, Will hung around the kitchen while Hannibal cooked, assisting in the small ways entrusted to him: prepping vegetables, peeling, chopping and dicing. Clearing up the dishes.

They spoke on innocuous topics, though when conversation petered out, Will didn't mind. It was a companionable silence. He simply liked to be there, liked the steadfast presence of Hannibal near him.

Will did not think of the house as home yet. Nor would he ever, he imagined. The understanding remained that it was temporary shelter, an in-between place, and that sooner or later they would move away, though they hadn’t addressed it yet. To speak of the future entailed the unearthing all manner of things that neither was comfortable broaching yet, reluctant to disturb the momentary tranquility they managed to achieve.

Even so, the house grew on him, becoming familiar to him. Less desolate and more welcoming. A lot of it, of course, was the change in the atmosphere, the accord that grew between him and Hannibal.

Will tried to keep himself busy. He knew that the more useful he felt, the less likely he was to fall into brooding. He involved himself in the housework more, taking on some of the chores that Hannibal had shouldered. On occasion he even drove to town on Hannibal’s stead to resupply whenever they ran out of something or the other.

He went on walks more frequently. He sought out Hannibal every time before he left, and it was some variation of: “I'm going out.” “Alright. Don’t be too late.” “I won’t.”

Once, Hannibal was in the bath again, and Will left him a note on the bed that read:  _Out walking. Have not abandoned you. I’d take the car –much easier._  

Hannibal was earnestly sullen when he returned home. It made Will laugh outright. “You can’t be mad at me. Give me a kiss.”

“Will.”

“Are you not going to kiss me?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t patronize me.”

It was delightful. 

Will slept better. When they settled to bed at night, they fell asleep in various configurations, Will as the little spoon, or the other way around. Sometimes he sprawled on top of Hannibal, his head tucked under Hannibal’s chin. 

Mornings were his favourite time, he found; the precious moments in bed before the day began. The rasp of Hannibal’s voice, his hair in disarray, the warmth of him as he kissed Will good morning, before he rose, eager to get breakfast going.

-

At the core of him was a sapling of sentiment, kept hitherto repressed. On rarity, Will had succumbed to its whisper; he had watered it with a moment’s foolish indulgence. Not even then did he ever picture it to be this way between them. Soft touches; kisses softer, still. A nestling womb of intimacy to the exclusion of all else.

It was so sweet sometimes, it ached, the way all things we believe not meant for us ache.

Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were simply not made for this. Whatever this was –tenderness, or purity. This was not the way murderers embraced. Lips that tasted blood did not partake of each other this way, soft as eider down.

It could not last. Eventually, they’d have to exit the womb, and face all those things they skilfully circumvented.

Will knew this and yet he silenced that voice of reason. He let the sapling grow. It put out heavy branches. It erupted in a shower of blossoms.

-

Hannibal was making jam one morning, Will watching the process from his customary stool.

Hannibal washed the apricots under the tap. Then it was a process of scoring their skins with a paring knife, two lines to make a cross, while water boiled in a pot over the stove.

“It’s easier to remove the skins this way, without compromising the flesh of the fruit,” Hannibal explained. When he had scored all the apricots, he dropped them into the hot water in batches.

There was a bowl of cold water on the counter. Hannibal fished apricots out of the hot water, dropped them into the bowl, until they were cool enough to handle.

“See now, how easily it peels away?” he demonstrated, pinching at the skin, pulling away to leave a section of the apricot exposed. A succulent, glistening yellow. He repeated the process and dropped the fruit into another bowl.

When all the fruits were peeled, Will volunteered to pit them. They worked side by side at the counter, him splitting the apricots into halves to remove the seeds, Hannibal dicing them.

Will was careful handling them, not wanting to bruise or mangle, though really they were going to turn into jam and it hardly mattered. When he finished the task he washed his hands and leaned his hip against the counter, giving his attention to Hannibal.

He could tell by Hannibal’s small not-quite smile that he was aware of his scrutiny. When he diced the very last apricot half, he looked at Will sideways, before lifting a cube, bringing it up to Will’s mouth. 

Eye contact unbroken, Will parted his lips to receive it; Hannibal’s fingers brushed against them, leaving a wet trace of juice. He chewed, tartness bursting in his mouth. It was too sour. That was why Hannibal was making jam.

Will licked his lips. Then he took Hannibal's hand and licked the juice off his fingers. Then he put his mouth to Hannibal's mouth and made him taste it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I hoped, but I sort of decided to majorly re-structure it in the last minute, and then I couldn't stop myself editing and re-editing. And re-editing. Whoops.
> 
> I am so tired, lmao. Comments are very very appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

A spring storm was brewing. Will could tell by the gathering clouds, the unusual stillness in the air. All day long an antsiness crept up on him, anticipation with bated breath. They locked the doors and windows and waited.

It broke just after dinner, while he cleared away the dishes and Hannibal pulled dessert out of the oven. A strong downpour, pattering over the roof, before a crack of thunder resounded, so loud it rattled the walls. Whiteness flashed through the windows.

Hannibal stopped momentarily, tilting his head at the ceiling. He had large oven mitts on, a baking tray lined with meringue topped tarts in his grip. He set the tray aside and shut the oven door. He proceeded to plate and garnish the tarts, unbothered, before taking them to the living room to be consumed.

Later, Hannibal read aloud in bed, propped against the headboard. Book open on his lap, he turned the pages with his right hand while the left rested in Will's hair, petting him in time with the prose's rhythm.  
Thunder rumbled, drowning out some of his words, though Will hardly paid mind to them. They ran together, blurring on the periphery of coherence. It was Hannibal's voice that he clung to like a lifeline, the cadence of it, the particular lilt of his tongue. The weight of his hand in his hair an anchor, soothing him instinctively, for which he was grateful, yet ashamed, to need this comfort at all.

A powerful wind blast wuthered outside, and the lamplight flickered, threatening to go out, but it didn't; Hannibal continued.  
As the tumult of the storm filtered to his sleep, Will dreamed of the two of them sailing a tiny boat, rocked by jerking waves.

-

The next morning, Will found a dead sparrow outside, two steps on the porch. Wing bent at an unnatural angle, feet piteously curled up in the air. He stood by it, looking down at it for a long time. His only thought for a while was how large his feet looked next to it. Such a fragile thing, half-drenched, dashed by the cruel wind.

The morning was calm and cool, the damp earth collecting puddles. The barks of the trees were darkened with rain. A branch dangled off one of them, not yet snapped entirely. The sky was a clear and arching blue.

Will crouched down, transfixed by the pattern on the bird's brown feathers, its eyes like little beads of glass. He fetched the shovel from the shed and dug a hole at the foot of a budding ash. He went back inside, into the bedroom and looked through one of Hannibal's drawers, pulling out a paisley handkerchief.

Will picked the sparrow up, gentle as anything, and wrapped it in the handkerchief. Tucked its mangled wing in, swaddled it like a baby. He lowered it to the ground, like putting it to bed, and covered it up.

At breakfast he hardly touched his plate of crepes.

He retreated upstairs where he littered the floor around him, numbly chipping away at a piece of wood. There was no purpose to his action but to occupy his hands: a mindless repetitive motion, shaving it away, making it smaller and smaller.

A splinter sharply wedged into the heel of his palm, making him hiss –a long but thin piece which he tried to pull out, but only managed to snap. He huffed an impatient breath and stomped downstairs.

As he went through another drawer in the bedroom, Hannibal walked in. "What are you searching for?"  
"Never mind, found it." Will held the tweezers up for him to see. "Got a splinter in my hand."  
"Let me look at it."  
"Don't bother, it's nothing."  
Hannibal insisted.  
"I said it's _fine_. I can handle it."

Really. He wasn't entirely useless without his help.

Will struggled with the tweezers for some minutes, long enough that he imagined he couldn't handle it alone after all, and he'd have to slink back for aid, tail between his legs. The dread of humiliation redoubled his efforts until at last he extracted the splinter with success.

He washed his hands in the bathroom. He dabbed antiseptic from the medicine cabin to the puncture on his palm.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub and promptly began to weep.

Gone, gone, gone. Poor little dead bird. _She's everywhere and nowhere._

The tears were wrenched from the depth of him, old grief he had smothered. It seemed that once he started there would be no stopping them. Seemed like the force of them would rip his throat open.

-

From his half-sprawl on the couch, Will's gaze was affixed to the dangling branch outside. He saw it bobbing with every stirring breeze, still desperately attached to the trunk. He ought to go out and pull it down. He would do it. He resolved to do it, yet he remained motionless. He could not tell how much time passed in this manner, where it seemed imperative to get up, yet, not important enough.

Hannibal was speaking to him. Dimly, he registered an inquiry after his preference for lunch –risotto or a gratin? and recognized it for what it was: an attempt to draw him out of this laconic state. Harmless, and on most days, effective. It would be so easy. Pick one over the other. Follow Hannibal to the kitchen. Assist him with the meal prep. Then they would fall into an easy manner, the clouds of malaise chased away for the moment.

He passed his eyes over Hannibal slowly, a lazy appraisal.

"Come here," he said. Hannibal narrowed his eyes. "Come here," he repeated.  
This time Hannibal submitted, stepping forward. Will reached out and yanked him down by the collar of his shirt.

Hannibal began to collapse atop him and swiftly grabbed the back of the couch to regain his balance, his knee in a cushion, suspended over Will.

Will wound his arms around Hannibal's neck and lay back, pulling him along. He trapped Hannibal's hips between his thighs and kissed him fiercely. To his thrill and utter relief, Hannibal responded to it. He opened his mouth to catch Will's tongue, righted his position above him

Will scrabbled to get his shirt off then, in between impatient sloppy kisses, passing his hands over Hannibal's chest, pressing up against him, breathless, groaning, frantic.

That was new. They never made love that way before, out of bed, rough and rather crude. There was hardly enough space on the couch for them both.

It ended quickly, giving way to a loaded quiet, where each caught his breath. Hannibal's hair was disheveled where Will had grabbed a fistful of it. His proximity was beginning to become uncomfortable.

He took hold of Will's left hand and turned it upwards, then delicately, touched the pad of his index to the red spot of ruptured skin on Will's palm.

Will’s face crumpled with tears again. This time they were silent, a residue.

-

Bending over the bathtub, Hannibal dipped his hand into the water. Once he was satisfied with the temperature, he turned off the tap.

A few bottles were lined up on the floor, on the side. He picked up a smaller one and uncapped it, bringing it to his nose for a soft inhale. Will watched the subtle flare of his nostril, the flutter of his eyelids as he tipped his head forward, breathing in.  
He poured a careful few drops into the bath water before recapping the bottle and setting it back in place. He stirred a small current in the tub, then turned to Will. "The bath is ready."

By the time Will divested himself of his (scant) garments, Hannibal was already in. Will was about to follow suit, facing him.  
"No," said Hannibal, "Next to me."  
Will complied, turning about, immersing one foot, followed by another. Hannibal spread his legs to accommodate him, and Will settled between them, back to Hannibal’s chest.

The water was perfectly warm, giving off a deep and earthy scent from the bath oil Hannibal added.

“You’re tense," Hannibal observed.  
“Never shared a bath before.”  
Which wasn't untrue, but Will couldn't say the other thing that pressed on his mind. That the storm felt like an abrupt end to their short-lived honeymoon. It had already begun to slip away from him, like a spell wearing off, or a past life, out of his grasp. Not meant to last. How was it at all possible? Rose tinted days untouched by their mutual history.  
It could not be escaped. They could not simply be two men together, could they? Did they deserve it, even?

"Let me wash your hair," Hannibal murmured against his neck.

It was an indulgence. Hannibal wet his hair with scoops of water from his cupped hands. He picked up the shampoo bottle from the floor and poured a dollop on his palm, lathering it to a foam. He worked his fingers through Will's hair, massaging his scalp.  
Will began to feel heavy and drowsy with the pleasure of it, letting his eyes fall shut. Hannibal sluiced warm water on his head and washed away the last of the shampoo suds.

After a while, Will returned the favour, disturbing the bath water, which sloshed as he turned around. Hannibal accepted his ministrations contentedly. The motion of it was familiar to him and made him think of doing exactly this to his dogs, which pulled an unwitting smile from the corner of his mouth.

Hannibal mirrored his smile. "What?"  
"Like washing one of my strays," Will answered. With the tips of his fingers, he pulled up two frothy spikes of Hannibal's hair to stand up, like dog ears.

The smile froze on Hannibal's lips, eyes narrowing. Will laughed softly, flattening his hair back down.  
"You love to tease me."  
"With a pout like that, why wouldn't I?"

-

Drying off afterwards, Will weighted the words in his mouth before he let them out, hoarsely. “Sorry I snapped at you earlier."  
Hannibal was towelling his hair and let the towel hang over his shoulders. "Will you tell me what happened?"  
"Nothing happened."

Will knew that he said it too quickly, and that he looked away as he said it, so he forced himself make eye contact again. "Risotto. For lunch."

  
Prevarication. Hannibal let it be.

-

Since the incident when he thought that Will took off, Hannibal reverted to his saintly patience, sanguine in the face of Will's varying moods.

There were absences on occasion, like those of the first few weeks. Will folding unto himself, his silences cold, or despondent, pensive, or completely blank. He sat in one spot for ages, or passed through the rooms of the house by rote, like a spectre.  
Other times he vibrated with caged energy that made him itch, and none of his restless pacing or the chores or pastimes he tried to engross himself with seemed to relieve it.

It startled Will, the force of his anger. He would not usually call himself an angry man, yet there it was, alarming and difficult to placate. Where did it come from? What was its source?  
For a long time Hannibal was the recipient of his rage. Righteous vindicating fury for wrongs inflicted upon him. Rage with which he had pummeled a man to death, with bare fists.

But he wasn't angry at Hannibal now. The emotion was abstract, where once it was well-defined and focused. All the same, Hannibal was his only outlet.

He fucked Hannibal with an edge of desperation.

Hannibal was more than a match to it, delighting in it. Will could see the flash in his eyes to incite this passion, to be pushed up a wall, or pulled by his clothes, to be kissed hard, kissing back harder. Yes, his eyes said, inviting him for more. Promising to take it, promising to grant him whatever it was he needed.

There was a tendency afterwards, when Will had spent himself, to deflate entirely. Then he was pliant in Hannibal's arms, subject to showers of adulation. These were extravagant enough on occasion to awaken that shy streak within him that made him wish to cover his face. He was not used to being so adored.

As his moods varied, so did the ways they made love, but nothing could have prepared him for the night when Hannibal came out of the bathroom and crept to bed with intent, to sensuously whisper, _"I want you inside of me. I prepared myself for you. Would you like that, Will?"_

He had picked up Will’s wrist and sucked two digits into his mouth to wet them, had guided Will’s trembling hand, slowly, between his legs.  
He moaned when Will finally penetrated him, unabashed in his pleasure, urging him deeper, right against that spot inside that made his eyes roll back in rapture.  
His fingers had wound in the curling hair at the nape of Will’s neck, tugging to the point of pain. “Yes, Will," he had gasped, "Yes, just so.”

What he and Hannibal shared was deeply rooted in mind, but it was also physical, electric, his whole body attuned to Hannibal's presence, even long before he admitted it to himself, pacing around Hannibal's office with acute awareness of Hannibal's eyes following his every move.

But beyond erotically charged fantasies that were enmeshed with murder, he had not indulged enough in thoughts of it to consider what sexual dynamic they might have. Yet it surprised Will, that Hannibal wanted this, yielded so readily to it.

Though when he considered it, there was no reason to be surprised. Why would Hannibal shy away from any kind of pleasure? Much of what he did was consumptive in nature. His cannibalism, his indulgences, his receptiveness to all that was beautiful to him. He gave in to his senses entirely, a personal hedonism that was countered by stringent self-discipline.

Hannibal had none of Will's constraint. He took it and sighed and let his thighs fall open. His parted mouth reddened with kisses. He looked up at Will, a heavy-lidded rapt stare.  
"Got you wrapped around my fingers," Will said.  
"I'd say you have for quite a while now."  
"Not quite like this," a motion of his fingers to emphasize his point.  
"Will," exhaled Hannibal, breathily, "Another."

-

A gentle sizzle emitted from the pan where chopped onion sauteed on low heat. The fragrance spread across the kitchen while Hannibal sliced heaps of mushrooms on the cutting board.

"You don't always have to cook, you know."

It was something Will wanted to bring up for a while. "I'm not the greatest, but I can cook for us, from time to time. I can make you breakfast."  
Hannibal's knife slowed down. He afforded Will a glance then looked back at the cutting board.

"It's not a chore, if that's what concerns you."  
"I know that....but you must tire of it sometimes."  
"I don't."  
"Well, okay. I'm only offering."  
"Thank you," he said in a tone of voice which was very polite and clearly indicated he would not be taking up the offer any time soon.

The exchange was uneasy, somehow, not at all how Will imagined it might go: Hannibal smiling, perhaps, with a mischievous remark about the dubious merit of Will's culinary skills, or pretending to be offended by the insinuation that his own weren't adequate.

Instead Will was met with coolness that seemed rather defensive.

For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps Hannibal too needed something with which to ground himself. That the absolute way with which he dedicated himself to the kitchen, cleaning it, keeping it in order, was his means of exerting control, a pillar of stability.

Will had seen Hannibal's vulnerability, yet he always thought of it in isolation from Hannibal. A habit after all these years, after everything, to view him as rather superhuman, still. Always assured, confident, not lost like Will, not aimless, surely.

Hannibal's cooking had transformed over their stay, he noticed. Less ostentatious than the meals he served Will at his home in Baltimore. Though he used the best ingredients he could get his hands on, he adapted to the environment, adopting a rustic type of charm, an apparent simplicity –which was meticulously constructed nonetheless.

Such constructions, when it came to Hannibal. Deceptive in their outward ease. How often did Will fall for them? How many times had he been oblivious to Hannibal's tremulous uncertainties underneath?

-

It was a bright and beautiful day, sunshine pouring into the living room. Hannibal leaned back on the sofa, sketching, when Will made up his resolve to say, "I want my ring back."

The faint scratching of Hannibal's pencil on the paper ceased. He was caught unawares. Some reaction stirred within him, Will saw, though of course he hid it well.

He said nothing as he set his drawing things aside and rose to fetch it. The ring was at the bottom of a drawer in his night stand. He handed it to Will with affected nonchalance.

Will marched outside. He shoveled a hole next to where he buried the sparrow not long back, at the foot of a tree, which now bore delicate young leaves. He held the ring in the open flat of his palm for an instant, where it caught a glint of light. He let it plop down and buried it.

The entire process took hardly five minutes. He stood there, waiting for something. The rush of finality perhaps. He had known, of course, that the consequences of his choice, or rather, surviving that choice, were irreversible. But perhaps there was a difference in knowledge and acceptance. Or maybe it was a case of objective knowledge finally making its mark on the heart.

This was, physically and metaphorically, the putting away of the final link to his old life. The past effectively severed. Two small graves in the earth for dead things he once clung to.

For better or worse, Hannibal was all there was from now on. He felt neither lighter nor heavier, for he had known it, yes, that Hannibal was his entire world, his sorrow, his rage, and his love, yes, his love, twisted as it was. There was goodness in it, wasn't there? Wasn't it beautiful at times?

He became aware of eyes on the back of his neck and turned to see Hannibal watching him from the living room window. When he walked through the front door, Hannibal came to him in a rush, pulling him to a kiss of searing intensity.

Sudden heat emanated from his core. Will imagined himself melting right off his bones. Melting into nothing. Slipping through Hannibal's grasping fingers to pool at his feet.  
Then Hannibal deepened the kiss, and he was solid again, and every part of him was alight. His desire was so great it seemed unnatural for his body to encase it. He could hardly bear it.

"Take me to bed," his lips uttered against Hannibal's shapely lips.

-

"Won't you turn over?"  
"No."  
"Darling, turn over. Let me look at you." Hannibal coaxed.  
"No," insisted Will, pushing his face into the pillow to hide whatever expression was written there. He couldn't let Hannibal see him. Too many feelings wrestled inside him –inside him –Hannibal was–

Inside of him. Splitting him open, with devotion. Taking him apart, tenderly. Every thrust was devastating.

When it was done, Will continued to face away but allowed Hannibal's touch, an arm slung around his waist.

"It was a small ceremony," he began, "The wedding. I didn't care for one, but I knew it meant something to Molly. It was just us and a few of her friends. And Walter.  
She wore this delicate veil. I remember how it shimmered when she walked up the aisle. I lifted it off her face and she looked at me and–  
When I recited my vows I could hear them in your voice, as I said them."

Will felt the thick weight his admittance and Hannibal's attentiveness, though he could not see him. "I could never get you out of my head."

"I thought of you each day of those three years, Will," said Hannibal, his own offering.

Will touched his hand. "Were you mad at me?"  
"Often. I despaired of you coming to see me. I drowned in recollections of you."  
Hannibal rubbed his nose to the back of Will's neck, scenting it.  
"I thought that I had memorized everything there was to memorize about you. All your constituents stowed away, that I might conjure you up. Yet, when it came to it, they were not adequate. A mere dilution of you."  
His lips were on Will's nape now, so the words caressed his skin.  
"I could spend all my days committing your particulars, and you would still surprise me."

"You ought to get me another."  
When Hannibal didn't reply, Will clarified: "A ring."  
Hannibal's arm tightened around him. "Yes."

-

A half moon lit up the night sky, the spill of its silvery light slanting through the living room window. An elongated rectangle that touched the floorboards, the rug, the armchair.  
All the lights were out. It was sometime past midnight and Hannibal was in bed. Will had gone to bed with him but his thoughts had kept him up.

He unlocked the front door and stepped onto the porch. It was so quiet. He remembered how oppressive that silence was when they first moved in here. Trying to go to sleep next to Hannibal, aware of the sound of his breathing, the whisper of the sheets every time he shifted to find a more comfortable position to rest in.

The moon coated the silhouette of trees in silver. It was cold. Though the days grew steadily warmer, the nights still retained the dredges of the winter's chill. Moreover Will was in a t-shirt and shorts, barefooted. He was unmoving for an interval.

"Will."

He turned around, almost startled by the sound. Hannibal, by the door, wore a look of stern concern. When did he come up behind him? How long did he stand there? "Come inside. You're shivering."

He was. So he did.

-

Two contradictory things could be true at once. What he had shared with Hannibal on the bluff was an ugly thing. It was beautiful. Hannibal was grotesque. He was exquisite.

There was no perfect symmetry in it. Which of the two was more or less true was in constant flux.  
_Can’t live with him, can’t live without him._

Once, Jack told him that he needed to cut out the part of him that wanted to run away with Hannibal, which was impossible. Just as impossible as it was to cut out the part of him which, at the sight of Hannibal after eight long months of separation had thought, yes, I have to kill you, after all.

During the drawn out farce that was Hannibal's public trial, he looked back on it with regret. If only Chiyoh hadn't intervened, none of this would be happening. I'd have stuck a knife in you. I'd have held you in my arms and watched the life bleed out of you. And I might have wept for you then, and I might have also kissed you.

Will was always cleaved in two. Not a clean cut, not right down the middle, but always conflicted.

He followed Hannibal back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of bed.

"I will not kill with you again," he said abruptly, "Don't ever make me do it again."

Hannibal blinked. "I did not make you do it."

Will let the provocation slip. No, you didn't, but you know exactly what I mean, he didn't say.

"I dread what I'll become. Not a monster; not some cold-blooded connoisseur of death. Not an artist with a grand design." He drew a sharp breath and smiled tightly, more of a grimace, pulling at the lines of his face. "Just a common junkie, desperate for a fix. In time you'll find me contemptible."

Hannibal killed because he simply liked to. He enjoyed every aspect of it. Not the act alone, but the process in its entirety: picking out his victims vindictively, murdering them, cutting out parts of them, displaying their bodies. Cooking them, savouring the meat. Taking sustenance from it. He derived gratification from the physical exercise, and the intellectual one, his artistry perfected.

What Will craved was the singular delight of violence; the rush of mindless power when the clanging thoughts in his brain were silenced by bodily certainty. Peace, sweet and easy. And evanescent.

As soon as warmth left the blood that stained his hands, he experienced a shattering of his world. And the pieces, when they were rearranged, were never quite put in the same order again. He had changed after he shot Garret Jacob Hobbs. He had become more of himself in one respect, and less in another.

A constant seesawing. The tug and pull of noble and primal instincts. Half-bathed in light, half-obscured by shadow.

"I'm not one way or the other. I'll want it, but I'll always hate it afterwards. Or maybe I won't, and I'll hate that. I'll resent you. You'll weary of it.  
You would have me shed my compunctions like a husk, but I can't do that. Or rather, I simply don't want to. Which is more or less the same thing.  
Not the majestic becoming you had in mind," he trailed off.

Hannibal took this in with a slight crease between his brows. He seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment or two. "Are you," he said, "afraid of disappointing me?"

Will laughed, sharp and brittle. "I guess I am. Yeah."

"That is not possible," Hannibal said with feeling. "There is not a word you can utter nor an action of yours that could ever lead me to hold you in contempt. Will, you are," he paused, searching for the right words, "so precious to me."

"Do you see me as I am?"  
"With clarity."  
"I can't give you what you want."  
"What do you imagine that is?"  
"I can't sit at your table, sipping wine while you serve me a meal of someone's heart, or liver. I refuse to."  
"Yes."  
"I refuse to kill with you again."  
"Yes."  
"I–" Will drew up short. "That's enough for you?"

Again, Hannibal took his time to measure his words. "I wanted to share with you the experience of killing. I wanted to show you the inimitable beauty that sprung of it. And you saw it, didn’t you? It was...perfect, with you. It was enough."

Will was speechless. He had the stunned air of one who anticipated the task of surmounting a peak, only to be confronted with a plain. Hannibal reached out for his hand.  
"What do you want, Will?"  
He floundered.

"I want...your company. I want more time together. I–"  
"You have those things.”  
"It can't be that simple."  
Nothing ever was. Least of all for him.  
"Why not?" Hannibal said with such conviction that in an instant all the gnarled knots of his fears and anxieties were undone, just like that. Just so. Which was a fear of its own kind.

"What are we going to do now, Hannibal?"  
"We could leave, go to Europe. I would still love to show you Florence. Rome. Paris. Other cities. Many sights and experiences to be shared, together."  
"And after that?"  
"Anything. Whatever you like."

Hannibal's hand on top of his hand was warm and dry. Will turned his palm up, touching Hannibal's palm, so they could properly clasp.

  
"Okay," he said. "Alright."

-

"Just to be clear, you are aware that you signed up for an inordinate amount of dogs, right?"  
Sigh. "One dog."  
"Three at least."  
"Don't haggle with me."  
Snort. "That's what's gonna push your limit, is it?"  
"Go to sleep, Will."  
"I will soon, if you keep doing that."

Lying down together, Will had his head on Hannibal's chest, and Hannibal absently played with his hair. “It's getting long,” Hannibal said, running his fingers through the loose curls, pulling at the tips of them, releasing them to spring a little.  
“Want to cut it for me?” Will mumbled, sleepily.  
“Very well,” a kiss to the top of his head. “In the morning.”

 

_**-Epilogue-** _

 

Will was nowhere in sight, which meant that he was either upstairs or outside. The latter was more likely. Recently, he decided to start up a back garden. They had brought flower bulbs, seeds and saplings from the market, things that were easy for a beginner to grow, along with sacks of fertilizer and a few tools. Will applied himself to it with endearing focus.

Surely enough, when Hannibal peeked from the bedroom window, Will was out there with his gardening gear on –gloves, boots, a hat. He was crouched on his haunches, turning earth over.

The certainty of his whereabouts brought on a wave of relief, as though he'd held his breath without knowing. That had been the case ever since the afternoon he came out of the bath to an empty house.

He had shrugged off the suspicion at first and got on with lunch. When the roast in the oven was nearly done, he had walked up to the stair and strained his ear. There was no sound, no motion. "Will," he called out. Nothing.  
He climbed the stairs, heart seizing, to have his suspicion confirmed. Calmly, Hannibal went through every room. He went outside and checked the shed.

Will was gone. He had slipped away. When did Hannibal last see him? A few hours ago when he had gone up. And then? How long had he been missing? Hannibal would take the car and drive after him. But which direction did he take to?  
Back inside he started to search through the rooms again and mentally reprimanded himself for being so irrational. His mind was on the cusp of fracturing.

When Will entered the house so carelessly, when every prospect had dimmed in Hannibal's eyes over the past hour, the world had turned over. Did Will not see the herculean effort it took in order to simply string words together? Did he not realize?

Hannibal had fled to his study and stood with his back to the door, sucking in deep breaths. Eyes stinging. His fists were clenched. He unclenched them. A sob was close to tearing out of his throat. He swallowed it down.

When did he turn into such a dependent creature? When did his solitude become a curse?  
Was it the first time he laid eyes on Will? At the first word uttered from Will's lips? The first time he touched him? Was it in Abigail's room in Port Haven when he looked at the pair of them, and thought: family?

Outside, Will passed the back of his gloved hand over his forehead, leaving a faint streak of dirt. Will, his darling, his beloved, was not leaving him. He would never leave him. Hannibal had him, for now and all time.

They would depart when spring closed. Will would leave his small garden behind. They would put white sheets over the furniture again, the way they had found it.

He envisioned a Mediterranean summer evening, when the sky still held the last rays of the sun, a brilliant deep blue, with a band of red near the horizon. The windows would be open, letting in the perfume of the trellised jasmine flowers. He would take out a box from his back pocket, a black little velvet box with two gold bands inside, and he'd come up behind Will and offer it to him.

He imagined the look Will would wear. How solemn it will be, this exchange of rings, this wordless ceremony with which he'd wed himself to him.

He pictured a different scenario altogether. Daylight, in a bungalow by the beach, the sounds of the waves in the background a constant hum. Perhaps he'll slip the ring on Will's finger as he slept beside him and watch for his reaction when he came to. Or he would simply leave it conspicuously on the pillow by Will's head and wait for him to come to breakfast wearing it.

So many possibilities. Each intoxicating. Life had never held such promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooo here it is, way overdue. I completely lost confidence and motivation for a couple of weeks, sorry. I hope it's a good ending. I tried my best to conclude Will's emotional arc in a believable, satisfactory way.
> 
> This fic is actually a huge accomplishment for me (though it doesn't feel like it). It's the first thing I've committed to finishing in a really long time and the longest piece I've written, ever. I hope at least a fraction of the effort I poured into it shows.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Peace out.


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